


In Secret

by wtfrenchtoast



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Post-Movie, Semi-Public Sex, why am i so obsessed with these two?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-20
Updated: 2013-02-07
Packaged: 2017-11-26 05:09:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/646929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wtfrenchtoast/pseuds/wtfrenchtoast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint Barton tries to tell himself that he's satisfied with whatever Natasha Romanoff can give him. Until he's not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Set a few weeks post-movie. 
> 
> I own nothing.

And if you consume my brain with fire,

I'll feel you burn in every drop of my blood.

― Rainer Maria Rilke

 

*          *          *

 

“Wow.”

“Yeah.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Really, Barton? You dare say the Lord’s name with the same tongue that you did…that thing with? Which was mind-blowing, by the way.”

“I aim to please. Repeatedly.”

“Hey, you won’t hear me complaining. Especially where your aim is concerned.” She reluctantly threw her bare legs over the side of the bed and shivered at the chill in the air. “You always live in an icebox?” Buck naked, Natasha’s hips swayed teasingly as she stood and sashayed casually across the carpet towards the bathroom.

With a satisfied smirk, Clint rested his hands behind his head against the pillow, enjoying the show. “I’d say we make enough heat to compensate.”

She disappeared through the doorway. A minute later, he heard the toilet flush, and the tap running. “More than enough,” she called. “Think of the possibilities. We could give Stark a run for his money in the clean energy arena.” Her head poked around the corner, crimson hair framing the wry smile on her face.

The breath in Clint’s throat caught as she slinked around the corner, one arm sliding up against the doorjamb as she leans into it with one hip. Her movements were so fluid they were nearly feline. His eyes traveled the length of her nude body, every inch of porcelain skin. Hot doesn’t even begin to describe her, he thought with awe. Smoldering. Searing. Molten lava? Words rose and fell in his mind; she defied description. How did I get so damn lucky?

Natasha fixed him with her thousand-yard stare, the one that told him that though they’d spent the better part of the last couple of hours feeding each other’s desires, she was still hungry. Ravenous, even. Slowly, each step a staccato heartbeat in his chest, she made her way back to the bed. When her knees met the edge of the mattress, she gracefully lifted herself onto all fours and stalked forward until they were nose to nose.

Deliberately he drew his hand from behind his head to ghost along her cheekbone, her shoulder, down along her ribs. It continued its journey south until it reached her hip, and then slid between her thighs. His fingertip dipped between the folds of wet flesh and a tiny gasp escaped her lips. Beautiful, he thought to himself. So fucking beautiful. Without breaking eye contact, he pushed his finger inside of her and sank it deep. She gave an encouraging purr of approval. He pumped her agonizingly slow, and then added a second finger, earning him a throaty moan.

She glanced down at his lap, where the rapidly tenting sheet was growing. “What do you say we continue our…research? We could make some…valuable…contributions to the community.” A ragged gasp escaped her throat as his thumb began to circle her clit. Unconsciously she began to roll her hips towards his hand in a bid for _more, harder, now_.

“Anything for science.” Clint slipped his fingers out of her and roughly palmed her ass in both hands. With a hard jerk he dragged her into his lap so she straddled his thighs, his hard cock pushed up in between them. He dropped long, lingering kisses along her neck and shoulder and she writhed in response.

One of Natasha’s slender hands slid into the close-cropped hair at the back of his head and the other snaked around him, gripping him firmly. Her fingers tightened ever so slightly, and he drew a sharp breath inward at the sensation. The bed shifted slightly as her hips rose up. “Clint,” she hissed as she dropped herself down on him, achingly slow. “Look at me.” She tugged his hair gently, forcing him to meet her eyes. Pupils blown, the storm brewing in her matched his.

“I see you,” he whispered back. All I ever see is you. Do you know that? “Fuck. You feel so fucking good.”

She answered with a loud moan that surely the rooms on either side of his got an earful of. He bottomed out inside her, filling her completely, and how did he ever exist without this? He can’t remember. Their foreheads rested against each other, savoring the feeling before the intensity ramped up even higher. Is this how it is for the rest of the world? Are they the only ones who fit together like they were hewn from the same stone?

Clint believes so.

As she began to rock her hips, he took the opportunity to let his hands roam over the expanse of skin in front of him. He trailed his rough fingers over her shoulder blades, her spine. She shivered. One thumb rubbed across her nipple, and the desperate whimper that came from her lips put a wicked smirk on his face. He loved this. He loved that he could see her (was allowed to see her) unguarded and honest in a way that the rest of the world believed impossible. When they were together like this she had no smoke and mirrors, nothing up her sleeve. Pun fully intended, of course.

Natasha rode him hard, in her take-no-prisoners style that left them both breathless and slick with sweat. Somewhere it registered in Clint’s mind that the back of his skull was digging painfully into the woodwork of the headboard, but it didn’t come close to the delicious pleasure racing through his veins. “I wanna watch you come,” he managed to say between rough gasps. “Wanna feel you come on my cock.”

The sly, hungry smile that curled her lips lit a fire in his blood, as surely as a match to gasoline. “Make me,” she challenged.

“Oh _fuck_ yes.” Oh, this woman was going to kill him. He had a few tricks of his own, though, and was more than happy to put them to good use. He pushed his thumb into her mouth, letting her lips and tongue close around it like she was sucking…something else. The thought nearly ended the whole production right there and then. Quickly he withdrew and slipped the wet finger against her clit, stimulating her with just the right amount of pressure.

She instantly responded and bucked harder against him. “Fuck,” she whimpered. Smug pride filled his chest – he was the one who made her do this, made her fall apart and he got to put her back together. He dipped his head and caught one pink nipple in his mouth, his teeth gently tugging and scraping just so carefully along her rigid flesh. Her hips ground harder against him, which he took as encouragement.

“You’re fucking gorgeous, you know that?” Clint panted as he felt her movements speed up, borderlining on frantic. She was getting close. He circled her clit harder, faster. Watching her ride him to total abandon was sending him to the edge as well, and he hoped he’d be able to last long enough to get her there with him. With how tight she was as she approached orgasm, he doubted he’d make it.

“Oh God, oh _God_ Clint I’m gonna–” and he watched helplessly, awestruck, as she succumbed to the waves that crashed over her. She squeezed deliciously around him, eliciting an embarrassingly loud groan from his lips, but he barely noticed. He wished he could freeze time, spend the rest of his days cataloguing the oceanic blue of her half-lidded eyes, the way damp strands of crimson hair clung to her neck. If I live another hundred years, this will always, always be the single most devastatingly beautiful thing I have ever laid eyes on.

As the shudders and sighs slowly abated, Clint flipped them over quicker than either of them could blink, and slammed into her with almost bruising force. For a fraction of a second he was concerned that he’d hurt her, but the knowing smile on her lips proved otherwise. Natasha was no stranger to the rougher side of their bedroom activities, he should have known better than to worry. After a few strokes his pace evened out and her heels digging into his lower back drove him even faster to completion. Pleasure shot through him, blossoming out through his belly to reach his fingertips and toes and rendering him utterly incapable of even one sensible thought. “Fuck – Nat – so good…” he managed to drabble out before his words became completely unintelligible.

He collapsed on top of her, feeling boneless but still trying not to crush her into the mattress. Exhausted, he buried his face in her shoulder. This was the point, every single time they fell into bed together and drove one another crazy, that he’d always had to stifle himself. When all the lust was sated and before she slid back into Agent Natasha Romanoff, his friend and partner, when it was just _them_ and no fraternization policy or sexist bullshit to contend with…the words were on the tip of his tongue, and like always, he held them back. There had been days when he’d worked up the nerve to finally tell her, to lay his cards on the table and let the chips fall where they may. But then he’d open his mouth to begin and she’d roll over too soon or he’d chicken out and that one time she even fell asleep…

She made an indignant little noise that he knew meant _you have three seconds to move your ass before you lose a nut_ , and he compliantly rolled off of her onto the other side of the bed. Languidly she stretched her arms up, resting her hands against the headboard, and giving Clint a fantastic view of her bare tits. His eyes roved over her appreciatively. “Nice rack, Agent,” he quipped suggestively. He could feel it; they were slipping back into themselves, distancing from each other. Another opportunity, passing by like ships in the night. Next time, he told himself.

The way he’s told himself a hundred times before.

Natasha glanced downward at her naked torso, as if evaluating it for the first time. “It is, isn’t it?” she agreed easily, smirking. It’s not awkward. They both know why they come together and why they break apart afterward. It’s an old, practiced dance that they both know the steps, the timing; and it’s comfortable.

She rolled gracefully out of bed and padded to his tiny bathroom to clean up (again). Clint let his head fall back onto the headboard with a heavy thunk. Screwed, he thought to himself. Utterly and unforgivingly screwed.

 

*          *          *

“I fucking hate these things.” Clint rips off his bowtie like it’s burning him through the fabric of his tuxedo shirt. He hurls it to the floor of the limo with considerable distaste and pops open his top two buttons. “How much longer?”

“Five minutes, tops,” Tony Stark assures him, although his fidgeting gives away how anxious he is to be back at the Tower. “And hallelujah to that, because there’s a half a bottle of scotch with my name written all over it. That’s not even an exaggeration.” Obviously.

At least they’d been allowed to attend without their uniforms – Clint never failed to feel like a performing monkey donning his full Hawkeye gear outside of a mission or battle. Especially surrounded by stockbrokers and politicians in three-piece suits who peered at him like he was a bug under a magnifying glass. He didn’t pretend to understand Wall Street or what its function was in the world – that was Stark’s playground, not his. In any case, the ribbon-cutting ceremony wasn’t too taxing if it weren’t for the exhausting reception afterward. Hours of hand-shaking, introductions he forgot almost instantaneously, awkward conversation after painfully awkward conversation.The other Avengers seem to share his sentiment. Bruce Banner is doodling absently on the back of his hand with a Sharpie, probably equations or formulas or Klingon, for all he could decipher it. Stark is showing Rogers something on one of his many tablets, which Steve is commenting quietly on. He catches snippets of “combustible” and “incendiary” peppered through their murmurs, and decides he is perfectly content staying in the dark on this one.

Beside him, Natasha sits silently. He is having a hard time reading her; she gives away nothing on any given day, and when she wants to be left alone she reveals even less. He tries to be discreet and watches her stoic form out of the corner of his eye. She had worn a simple black dress, conservatively cut and long enough to brush her knees, but as always, the woman could make a burlap sack look fit for the Victoria's Secret runway. The hungry leers of the suits made his stomach turn and to calm himself, he had imagined his arrows pinning them to their precious Wall Street with strategically aimed shots. He cracked a smile at the thought.

Natasha chose that moment to peer at him, one eyebrow raised. "You’re daydreaming about shooting something, aren’t you?” she commented dryly. 

A woman after his own heart, he thinks to himself with a smirk, even though it couldn’t be further from the truth.

 

*          *          *

 

They finally reach Stark Tower, and Happy takes them directly into the private garage to avoid drawing any more attention than necessary. They file into Tony’s private elevator without much fanfare. The whoosh of the high-powered lift takes them eighty stories up, to Tony’s residential floors.

When the doors slide open, instead of Tony’s glass-and-steel décor they’re greeted with the whitewashed walls of one of his labs. “Quick stop in R&D, guys, don’t bother getting comfortable, we’ll only be here a second.” Stark breaks into a jog as he disappears down one endless hallway. Banner, Steve, Clint and Natasha step off of the elevator hesitantly, but it’s only a moment before Bruce is distracted by something shiny (“Is that a – holy shit, it is! Do you guys even comprehend that this baby right here completely redefined the Heisenberg principle – oh, for crying out loud, nevermind…”) and wanders off.

Steve’s eye is caught by a holographic display presenting a three-dimensional jet model. Clint observes him silently as the captain’s fingers manipulate the image with some trepidation, like it might implode with one wrong touch. For all of Rogers’ strength and enhancements, Clint doesn’t envy the Captain’s position. He’s felt like a fish out of water for the greater part of his life without having to re-learn how to live it.

A hard jerk to his shoulder wrenches his body backwards and faster than he can blink, he’s dragged into a side hallway across from the elevator, out of sight of the others. Clint’s senses are screaming like a siren – his fingers rip his pistol from the holster strapped to his belt and he’s got the safety off and trigger finger ready –

“Nat.” Relief, then what-the-hell crosses his face. “The fuck were you thinking? I could have blown your head clean off your–”

One slender finger is placed against his lips, effectively staunching his words. “Sssh,” she hushes him. Her voice is low, husky, and a shiver runs through him. “They’ll hear.” He knows that look in her eyes. Hungry. She presses her body to his and God, she’s warm, inviting, and it’s a reminder of how lost he really is for her. Enough to fuck her right here in Stark Tower, a stone’s throw from their unsuspecting teammates.

He’s on board, obviously, she could proposition him in the middle of Times Square on New Year’s Eve and they both know he wouldn’t hesitate. But she was the one who wanted everything kept under wraps, so public sex (and it goes without saying that boning on any property of Tony Stark’s is practically a one-way ticket to YouTube notoriety)? Not exactly in line with discretion. “Here? I mean, trust me, this is not a complaint – you know you don’t have to ask me twice. But if we get caught, Nat, that’s _it_ , you get that?”

The cocky half-smirk that curls her lush, pretty lips makes his cock jump in his pants. “ _If_ we get caught,” she echoes knowingly. “You know, for a world-class expert in international espionage, you’re kinda chicken.”

He puts his hands up in mock surrender. “Hey, I just want it stated for the record that I recognized the potential risks in a high-stakes scenario, okay? That I didn’t just go rushing headlong into what’s probably gonna be a shitstorm when we get interrupted?”

The heat in her gaze is searing, melting him down into liquid to be molded into whatever she wants. “Duly noted, Agent.” She backs him up to a door with a keypad lock beside the doorknob. Without even a glance downward she punches in the combination and once they hear the click of the lock, she shoves him in, hard.

Clint spares a glance around the dimly lit room; it’s a conference area, with a long table and several cushy chairs circling it. Cameras? Bugs? He sends a cautious glance Natasha’s way, and she shakes her head minutely. He shrugs to himself. She “worked” for the guy, she’d know better than he would.

Too late now, he thinks ruefully as he grasps her ass firmly and lifts her up, setting her down on the edge of the conference table. He moves closer between her parted legs. There isn’t time for a long, languid encounter; this is gonna be fast and dirty and barreling towards their mutual pleasure together.

He leans down and kisses her roughly, dragging his lips along her jaw and down the creamy skin of her throat. She moans as he dips his finger into the neckline of her dress and yanks it down, exposing the tops of her breasts. His mouth moves there next which draws even louder, ragged whimpers from her. Breathtaking. You devour me with every heartbeat, do you know that? “This dress,” he breathes in between nips at her perfect skin. “You fucking tease, you had every man in a five-mile radius wishing they could see what’s underneath it. Taste it. I know I did.” He’s achingly hard, and thrusts himself against her in an effort to quell the raw desire that’s taking him over. Desire, and something else, something deeper and so all-consuming he feels like it will swallow him alive. Tell me, Natasha. Tell me what I have to do, who I have to be, to prove that I’m good enough for you.

Natasha draws his head up to hers, and her kiss is slow, torturous. “But you’re here now. Not them,” she whispers, her voice just a little hoarse or is that his imagination? “Lucky you.” He knows what she means, although damned if his chest didn’t tighten just a twinge anyway. He should be satisfied with her trust. In her book, there’s far less of it than love to go around.

 His hand slides up her thigh and under the slim-fitting skirt of her dress. No time, regretfully, for driving her crazy the way he relishes. When his fingertips meet with the flimsy lace of her panties, she bucks into his hand with a desperate whine. “Please, Clint,” she implores. “Touch me. Please. I need to feel you.” Her words draw an exquisite groan from him – he’s more than happy to acquiesce. He pulls the fabric aside and slides one finger, two, inside her, _God_ she’s fucking wet, he can smell her.

“Jesus _fuck_ , Nat, you’re practically dripping. For me? Thinking about my cock inside you? You want that?” A furious thrust of her hips answers him, and he cracks a smile. “Or maybe…no. Maybe you had something else in mind.” Clint dips his head down to where his fingers are slowly pumping inside of her slick heat. He spreads her with his fingers, begins to lap his tongue around the nub of flesh inside. She wriggles as he circles closer and closer to her clit, and then he finally delivers, lips and tongue and a tiny scrape of teeth against her–

“Holy – oh, my God, yes, please don’t stop,” Natasha whimpers. He presses down hard on her hip with his other hand, holds her in place as he licks her furiously. She comes hard with almost no warning, shuddering her release into his mouth as he orgasm rockets through her. Her thighs relax slightly and he knows she’s ready for him. He’s nearly crazed with desire at this point, and fuck it all, he doesn’t care if Stark and Rogers and the whole damn team plus Fury bust through that door, he’s got to have her. Now. He’s so goddamn hard he can’t believe he’s got enough blood to stand up straight.

She leans forward and unbuckles his belt and pants. Breathing hard, she rips them down along with his boxers and hooks her legs around his hips and suddenly he’s inside her, surrounded by her, tensing and rippling and God almighty does she know what she does to him? She does. Of course she does, she wouldn’t be Natasha if she didn’t use every fucking advantage at her disposal and he loves her for it, dammit all. One thrust, then another, and she’s driving her hips up to meet him as they gain a frenzied rhythm. Half-words that dribble into moans pour from them, frenetic and violent and almost vicious, matching their frantic bodies as they collide in pleasure. Clint feels himself tighten, the coil nearly ready to spring, and just before he spills into her he bites down on the tender flesh between her neck and shoulder. Her thighs squeeze his hips and he knows he’s hit the sweet spot. They both tumble over together, a litany of curses and each other’s names fall from their lips.

As they unravel from each other, Clint feels the familiar longing rise within his chest to hold her, pepper her face with chaste kisses and prove to her that it was never just about the sex. And for one momentous second he actually believes that he could do it. But then he remembers that they’re in Tony Stark’s tower, after a hard and dirty fuck on his walnut conference table, and decides that if there were ever a wrong place and time, it was here and now.

 

*          *          *

 

“To the Avengerrrsss! Hey, did anybody ever notice that ‘Avengers’ sounds kinda like the word, ‘adventures?’ Coincidental, I think not!” proclaims Tony, glass held high in a toast, who sways just enough that Clint believes that he might just keel over. He doesn’t, he catches himself at the last moment and clumsily makes his way to the couch.

It was Tony’s idea, of course. To get rip-roaring drunk at half past one in the afternoon, because wealthy genius types have that luxury. But, apparently, they all did as well, just by association. After a long morning spent putting on the dog-and-pony show at the groundbreaking of the rebuilt Wall Street, hardly anyone had the energy nor the motive to argue.

How many drinks each of the five of them had imbibed, they were long past keeping track. Clint was pretty sure that Tony’s blood was at least fifty percent scotch on a good day, and had watched him polish off a third of a bottle all on his own. Bruce was cheerfully debating with Natasha the merits of Kevin Smith movies (“They’re abhorrent. The only one I could stand was _Dogma_ ,” Nat declares forcefully, to which Bruce responds that _Mallrats_ could top _Dogma_ any day, and launched them into a whole new argument) on Tony’s sectional. Natasha’s vodka tonic keeps mysteriously refilling itself and either she doesn’t notice (unlikely) or doesn’t care. Even Steve seems at least tipsy, which means he’s managed to consume at least sixteen.

It’s a peculiar scene. Clint watches from the sidelines, as per usual. He nurses a Guinness quietly.

Across the spacious living room, he catches Natasha’s eye. The barest hint of a smile curves the corner of her full lips, and he feels the heat of their earlier encounter rush through him all over again. She holds his gaze as she takes a lazy sip of her cocktail, tongue lingering on the rim of her glass, and Jesus Christ what the hell does she think he’s made of, teasing like –

“Agent.” A stiff voice shatters the tenuous connection between them, and Clint glances witheringly at the interloper. Rogers. Clint’s expression softens slightly, but not much.

Swallowing his irritation, Clint nods in the Captain’s direction. “Cap.”

An awkward beat passes between them. Rogers looks for all the world like he’s about to burst, fidgeting, eyes darting over the room like he’s being watched. The silence drags on for so long that Clint rolls his eyes and finally puts him out of his misery. “Something on your mind?” he prods half-heartedly.  

The words tumble out in a whoosh, like water from a breaking dam. “You and…Agent Romanoff. Are you – uh, are you two…a thing?”

The question, innocuous as it is, slams into Clint like a ton of bricks. Outwardly, he flinches almost imperceptibly, tightening his grip on his pint glass by only a fraction. In his mind, though, six years of fighting and kissing and arguing and fucking and the bottomless fear when she was trapped in a collapsed subway tunnel for three days and her stitching his stab wounds and the way his skin hums every time she’s near…it all races before his eyes, one snapshot at a time. Giving her my hand instead of the business end of my arrow. Learning the shape of her lips when they fit against mine. Jamming my fingers into an artery sliced clean open by a stray bullet, praying and bargaining with any deity who would listen not to let her die.

A thing? Hardly. They were a million. Too many and not enough.

He casts a rueful glance at the Captain, who’s eyeing him carefully. “Nah,” he answers casually. He betrays nothing. The Black Widow would be proud. “I like my balls where they are, Cap. Attached to my body.”

Steve shifts uncomfortably, eyes fixed ahead. He follows his gaze to where it falls on Natasha as she laughs quietly at something Bruce says, and it dawns on Clint where this conversation is headed. His chest tightens with apprehension. He turns his entire body towards the pensive-faced man, concerned. “You know they don’t call her Black Widow for nothing, right?” he asks Steve. “Just because no one’s ever seen her literally cannibalize someone doesn’t mean it’s never happened.” He’s half-joking, but the warning in his low voice is evident.

Steve doesn’t comment. A sick feeling rises in Clint’s stomach. He respects the Captain, as a leader and a teammate and a man who’s out of place in his own skin. He sees how he has to prove himself over and over again to be taken seriously, and how he does it with no bitterness, no resentment for those whose approval he’s subject to. Noble, in a way that Clint might have been, in another life where he could afford to have ideals and beliefs in things other than trajectories and kill shots.

Steve Rogers may not have red in his ledger, but Clint recognizes that in Steve’s own mind, it makes no difference. He owes the world as much as the rest of them.

The Captain’s floppy blond locks fall over his forehead as he scrubs his large hand over his face. “I’m a mess. Where would I take her? Dinner? Knowing her, if I brought her to a shooting range she’d probably accuse me of being a romantic sap. I’m not saying…hell.” He scoffs at himself. “Here I am, carrying on like she’d even spare me a second look.”

Clint glares at him witheringly. “Yeah, you tall, handsome, muscle-y types. She’d pass you right by,” he deadpans, rolling his eyes. His mind screams at him _you masochistic fuck – why are you encouraging him?_

Because you can’t deny her anything, he answers himself mockingly. Even if the thing in question is another man. He recoils at his own thoughts with a grimace. If one could drown in his own self-loathing…

He decides to cut his losses. “Well, good luck, man,” he nods, saluting him with his pint glass. “And if she hands you your nuts on a stick? Can’t say you weren’t warned.” Steve tenses noticeably, jaw muscles flexing. He slides the younger (older? Clint’s never quite sure) man a sideways smile to set him at ease and makes his way to the elevator.

Clint Barton suddenly feels the need to shoot stuff.


	2. Wrecked

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit angsty, forgive me :P but really, jealousy looks good on Clint. And by Clint I really mean Jeremy Renner, hehe...

It’s a painstaking, meticulous process. One long, slow swipe, wait a few moments, and then another coat. She blinks a few times in the bright light of the vanity mirror.

The black mascara complements the flawless black liner that rims her top eyelid. She dots on creamy, peachy-pink blush and blends it into her high cheekbones. She adds a touch of shimmery gloss to her lips, and leans back to evaluate the finished product.

Natasha’s hair has been dyed a warm brown so that her normally fiery locks are a deep, rich auburn. She pins a few stray curls away from her face and arranges them carefully so that they fall gently around her ears. With a deep breath, she sets her shoulders and decides that she is ready. She’s devastatingly beautiful and she knows it, in the same way that she handles a loaded pistol or runs her finger along the business end of a dagger. Her beauty is a weapon. A tool. A means to an end.

And for those who fall victim to her, that end is often literal.

Behind her, sitting anxiously on the foot of the luxurious king-size bed, fidgeting with his bowtie is Steve Rogers. His eyes tick between focusing on some indeterminate point on the wall and boring holes into her back. She knows his eyes are on her. She hears him swallow hard every few minutes or so, or clear his throat, or cough. He’s uncomfortable with the silence but it poses no issue to her. She’s enjoying the internal battle waging within him to be respectful of her and not let his eyes undress her the way he is driven to by his baser instincts.

The gown is a rich midnight blue satin, the off-the-shoulder neckline plunging low to expose most of her shoulders and throat. It’s fitted through her hips, where it flares gently to the floor. Her jewelry is minimal as always, just a pair of diamond studs in her ears and the impressive diamond solitaire that graces her left ring finger. Faux, of course. This was S.H.I.E.L.D., after all. 

She turns around suddenly, and notices with some amusement how Steve’s eyes immediately drop to her cleavage. The dress is tasteful but it exposes just enough to stir the imagination.

From the way his blue eyes widen and lock onto her porcelain skin, his is running wild. At least he has the decency to blush.  

Natasha smirks and without any hesitation whatsoever, props one long leg on the bed, inches from Steve’s tense form. She slides the hem of her gown higher and higher to reveal a knife holster hidden on her upper thigh. She tugs on it, checks that it’s secure, and drops her leg back to the floor. She steals a glance at Steve’s face - he cannot even meet her eyes. His ears are tomato-red. A true gentleman, she muses to herself. They don’t make ‘em like this anymore.

She begins to feel a tiny kernel of remorse for torturing as pure a soul as Steve Rogers. She knows full well her effect on men, and her actions are driven entirely by how much she enjoys watching him squirm and for no other reason. She plunks herself down on the bed next to him with all the grace of a newborn deer. “The last time I wore this dress, the Italian ambassador vomited gnocchi and veal piccata all over me. There might have been a few shrimp cocktails mixed in somewhere. It had that kind of smell.”

Steve let out a strangled laugh, the tension sufficiently broken. “As I recall, there was no way you could have known that he was allergic to Rohypnol. Also, he wasn’t even the real Italian ambassador.” He grins, a sincere smile that told her that he forgave the relentless agony she had just put him through, no matter her intentions.

Natasha shrugs easily, recalling the fond memory like an old friend. It is much, much funnier now than it was at the time. “I haven’t been able to go near an Olive Garden since,” she deadpans, even though that isn’t remotely true. He raises his eyebrows at her, calling her bluff, and the smile they share is genuine.

The knock at the door is sharp and firm, and without waiting for permission the door swings open. Steve and Natasha whip their heads towards the intruder, their smiles fading, a snarky retort ready from the latter. It dies on her tongue at the sight of Clint Barton, dressed in his Hawkeye gear. The hard glint in his eye as he appraises the two of them. 

Since their conversation at Tony’s impromptu kegger nearly a week ago, Steve's noticed how the sniper’s demeanor has slipped from solemn to downright stern, with a side of tense.

He clutches his bow tightly in his right hand and only Natasha picks up on how his left one clenches into a fist by his side. “You two done primping? We got five cars waiting on your asses, and you’re in here painting each other’s nails. Let’s move.” He doesn’t wait for acknowledgment from either of them. He’s down the hall before they can even stand.

 

EARLIER THAT DAY

 

He feels the exhaustion begin to seep into his muscles. A slow burn, dragging him down like liquid iron pumped into his blood. His legs gradually cease their relentless motion without any interference from him. Newly aware of his surroundings, he realizes that the lush, wet forest around him is nowhere he’s been before. Ever.

The GPS in his watch announces that he’s nineteen-point-six miles from his starting point. He lets out a low whistle. Nearly twenty miles of straight running, the even pounding of his feet on pavement hypnotic. It lulls the manic thoughts bouncing around his head into submission. Almost enough for him to forget why he’d pulled a Forrest Gump in the first place.

Almost.

Clint slows to a stop along the shoulder of the road. He wanders slightly into the brush nearby to catch his breath, but the air is wet and heavy and he finds no relief. In defeat, he rests his forearm on the trunk of a nearby maple tree, and drops his forehead on it. How had it come to this?

The day had started without incident. He had rolled out of bed, dressed in gym gear and prepared to meet Natasha in the S.H.I.E.L.D. training room, the way he had been for months every Sunday morning, unless one of them was on a mission. It was their way of regrouping. Some folks go to Sunday Mass, some beat the everloving crap out of their partners.

He was in fairly high spirits as he jogged into the training room, weaving his way through punching bags, treadmills and various weight benches to the mats. He spotted Nat right away, dressed in a black tank top and stretchy, snug black pants. Not revealing by any means, but definitely flattering. Behind her, on her periphery, more than a few male agents slid appreciative glances over her lean, fit body. Inside, Clint chuckled to himself. He knew that if she caught any of them she’d make them pay. Probably with several vital organs.

It’s part of what he is so grateful that she is. In a field populated so heavily by men, she demands respect, not attention, which proves the kind of character she possesses. Especially knowing how easy it is to draw said attention when she wasn’t even trying. 

He approached the sparring mats looking forward to some good old-fashioned ass-kicking when he realized Natasha wasn’t alone. Dismay crept onto his face. This wasn’t exactly the “old-fashioned” he had in mind.

Steve Rogers had her in a full-body lock, his forearm held tightly to her throat and the other wrapped securely around her waist. They’re flush to each other, her back against his front. She pushed the arm holding her midsection lower. “Control my hips,” she commanded him firmly. “Throw me off balance. I’ve still got the upper hand right now.”

Something ugly and fierce flared up in Clint’s throat when he took in their bodies so close together, sweaty, breathing labored. He watched warily as with one fluid move, the Captain wrenched Natasha’s left arm behind her and threw her onto the ground with a hard thump. The smile on her face was easy and light as she dusted herself off. “Better,” she commended. “See? It’s not all that different. You just need to remember that my center of gravity is lower. Control the strongest part of the body and you’ll be golden.”

Steve gave her a wry smile. Clint had the sudden impulse to punch it off of his face. “Easier said than done. I’ve seen what you can do with those thighs," he blurted.

The entire room fell eerily silent.

The shade of red that colored Steve’s boyish face was almost inhuman. His mouth worked open and closed a few times, as if trying to coax out some sort of sound. Tasha, on the other hand, was watching him with amusement. “Uh...you, um...I meant no disrespect, just that, well, I’ve seen you fight. Obviously. And, um, we’ve never-“

Natasha gave him a patronizing smile. “In your dreams, Captain.” She turned, and noticed Clint standing a mere few feet away for the first time. “Hey,” she greeted him casually. If she could sense his apprehension, she didn’t show it. “I hope you don’t mind, I invited the Forty-Year-Old Virgin here to spar with us.” She tossed her head towards Steve’s still mortified form, smirking.

Steve frowned in indignation. “Forty?” He paused. “Although, all things considered-“

Clint ignored him completely. “Uh, it’s...fine,” he stumbled. “Y’know, I was gonna go for a jog anyway. I’ll catch up with you guys after.”

Tasha eyed him carefully. “You sure?”

“Yeah.” He forced a smile and it felt more like a grimace. “Go easy on the Captain. He’s an antique.” He didn’t hesitate as he turned and headed for the door.

Behind him, he heard Steve ask indignantly, “How are you so sure that I’m a virgin, anyway?”

Natasha’s voice, dry and sarcastic, shot back, “Because I’ve met you?”

Clint didn’t pause to hear Steve’s reply before escaping into the early morning fog.

Nineteen-point-six miles and almost two hours later, Clint’s mind is clearer but still restless.

He plunks himself down on the thick trunk of a fallen oak and finally allows himself to face the maelstrom he’s been avoiding since the Battle of New York.

He’s not stupid. He and Natasha had been living in their own bubble for years. But maybe he’d never realized how tiny that bubble was until it was unceremoniously burst – and suddenly there was Stark, and Rogers, and all these other interlopers who could surpass them in speed and strength and power. Good guys to have around in a pinch, for sure, but he wasn’t prepared for how much their presence altered the dynamic between him and his partner.

It does not escape him the irony of the situation. Most men would believe they’d died and gone to heaven if a woman like Natasha jumped their bones regularly and never wanted strings attached.

It goes without saying, though, that he has never fallen into the category of  “most men.”

Even among the other S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, he considered the two of them to be above the others. Faster, stronger, more competent. It would be hubris if it weren’t unarguably true. Nat was a hair's breadth away from devouring him alive; a lesser man would stand no chance.

Clint’s selfish and he knows it, but he felt comfortable knowing his place at her side wouldn’t be challenged. That maybe their volatile hot-cold dance wasn’t exactly what he had in mind, but at least she wasn’t involved with anyone else.

He realizes now that he, in fact, was quite stupid. And he may be paying the price. He saw the way Steve looked at her. It was written all over his prom-king, star-quarterback face. The sliver of truth that honestly makes his skin crawl the most is that he’s always written Steve off as too Boy-Scout for her, too straight-laced and self-sacrificing. But he’s a leader, where Clint is not quite a follower – he prefers to think of it as ‘independent,’ but some would just call him a loner.

Up until now, they’d been loners together. But he notices how comfortable she’s become with the others, the beginnings of a family she’d never had. And with that, would she outgrow him? Shed him like a dead skin? The thought turns to deafening white noise that obliterates everything else in his head.

In his pocket, his phone vibrates and snaps him back to reality. He glances at the screen; it’s Fury. “Agent Barton.”

“Sir."

"You're late. The mission brief started at 0900. I cannot imagine what you found so pressing that you chose to ignore your obligations to your team, but let me put it this way: I don’t fucking care. Get here. Now."

Clint rolled his eyes, something he'd never dare in the director's presence but hell, he was already without a paddle. And then he remembers that he's a good 2 hours' run from the compound and he mentally kicks himself for his impulsiveness. "Sir, I-"

"Shut up, Barton. And be grateful that I need you conscious or I'd make you haul your sorry ass back here on foot. All nineteen-point-six miles."

Clint frowned, and then he hears it. The whir of a chopper. It gradually grows louder as it approaches until the roar envelopes him and the tree limbs around him are whipping furiously. A hundred yards to his left, the bird lands carefully onto an area only slightly wider than itself. The pilot beckons him over.

With a heavy sigh that he can't hear over the roar of the rotating blades, he yells his gratitude into the phone and disconnects the call. He jogs to the helicopter and jumps into the cabin with practiced ease.

He closes his eyes, letting the steady drone of the chopper fill his ears and drown out everything else, even his own heartbeat.

 

*          *          *

 

The scope of his sniper rifle feels like a magnifying glass. From his perch on the roof of the office building across the street, he scrutinizes every move they make. Every hand resting on the small of her back. The way she rests her fingertips on the crook of his elbow. When they join the other couples on the dance floor, Steve wraps one muscular arm around her waist protectively, and she smiles radiantly up at him. Clint nearly snaps the barrel in two.

They’re beautiful together, that fact doesn’t escape him. Two perfect specimens of humanity. Except she’s not perfect. Scars and cracks and places stretched too thin over memories she cannot evade. He is the only one who knows. Does she remember that? When she has another man holding her like the precious thing she is, not a mark this time but an ally?

Steve twirls her like a ballerina. The other couples, mostly old money debutante-types, smile approvingly at the storybook couple they portray. He and Natasha play out their covers like they were meant for them. Their mark hovers nearby, eyes fixed on, ironically, Steve. The brother of a local drug kingpin with designs on married men, it was one of the rare missions where Natasha played only a supporting role instead of the honeytrap. Clint finds meager consolation in the fact that at least he didn’t have to watch yet another moron paw at her like a dog worrying a bone.

As if on cue, Natasha excuses herself for a drink, and the mark, a swarthy, olive-skinned man with a seventies’ porn star mustache, swoops in just as they planned. He offers the Captain a firm handshake, lingering just a half-second longer than is polite, and Clint hears through the comm when he offers Steve a cigar. Steve acquiesces and follows him out onto the veranda under the guise of “talking shop.” Tonight, he’s the son of a self-made Texas oil empire with millions to spare, and not enough brains to know what to do with it.

Clint cocks a half-smile when he recalls Steve’s…trepidation when presented with his role in the mission. He had been assured that the charade would not extend past a conversation with the mark, that he would only have to lure him into setting up a “business meeting,” but that was hardly enough to assuage him. “Think of it as a patriotic sacrifice,” Fury had remarked dryly. “A sliver of dignity for the greater good. And if the fucker gets handsy then at least you won’t have to fake your…reluctance.” The director’s face, at that moment, was the closest thing Clint had ever seen to an actual smirk. It was like witnessing Hailey’s comet passing in front of a solar eclipse on February 29.        

Steve leads the mark onto the marble veranda, giving Clint a perfect view and an even more perfect shot, if necessary. He and the mark exchange pleasantries for a few moments, and Clint can’t help but snort to himself when the shorter man lays a meaty hand on Steve’s bulky forearm. “Better be thanking God and the saints that Stark’s not here to witness this, Rogers,” the sniper snickers over the comm link. “Never pictured you for a chubby chaser. Think he prefers top or bottom? I’m betting bottom.”

Through the plate-glass windows of the ballroom Clint catches Natasha’s eye. She’s holding her champagne glass close to her lips as she stifles a laugh, and they exchange a small smile that makes Clint’s heart clench. The slight flush from dancing and the humidity tinges her skin pink, and for a few moments everything else falls away.

I want you so badly I can’t think straight. Can you tell? Do I give myself away? I don’t even care anymore.

A muffled thump over the comm link rips him from his thoughts and he switches his attention back to the Captain. The mark’s got Steve backed into the corner of the railing and a lascivious smile twists his round, bulbous features. Steve’s barely controlling his panic and as much as Clint’s enjoying the scene, he fixes his scope on the heavyset man. Just in case.

Natasha chooses that moment to interrupt the two, much to Steve’s relief. The mark retreats slightly and gives Steve a firm handshake along with his business card. “Join me for drink, Mr. Desmond,” comes the invitation in heavily accented English. “Tomorrow. Buenos Aires is beautiful city if you have proper guide. _Buenos noches_.” He kisses Natasha’s hand and waddles back into the main ballroom.

Steve wipes sweat from his brow and lets out a long breath he had apparently been holding. Natasha gives him a peck on the cheek and whispers, “Miss me?”

“Where’d you get a drink, Bangkok?” he hisses back. 

The ride back to the hotel is littered with jokes at Steve’s expense, Natasha making cracks about her first time cockblocking and the Captain trying to recoup some of his lost self-respect. Clint enjoys the laugh track but doesn’t contribute anything. His thoughts are wrapped up in pale blue eyes.

*          *          *

The debriefing is exactly that – brief. Steve has made satisfactory contact with the mark. Tomorrow’s goal is to gather details – the when, where and how of the drug production, movement. Steve confirms that he will be meeting their mark for drinks, with only the intel and backup teams, no escort. This triggers another round of poorly-concealed snickers and once Fury’s able to rein them back in, he dismisses them.

Steve, Natasha and Clint stagger their exits from the hotel room that’s serving as HQ and make their way back to their own respective rooms. Steve and Natasha are sharing, of course, as part of their cover. Clint spares a bitter glance at the door as he passes, a reminder of yet another night spent alone that awaits him.

 *          *          *

The entire mission is blown to hell at exactly 8:33 the following evening. Steve slides into the large round booth in the corner of the smoky lounge where he’s agreed to meet, and is greeted by the cold barrel of a pistol aimed at his kidney. The previously jovial mark is steely-eyed and wastes no time expressing his displeasure at the prospect of torturing Steve to death when he would make such a delicious bedmate. The firefight that ensues is bloody and the aftermath is spent picking brain matter out of their hair.

Evac doesn’t bother returning them to the hotel as their cover’s completely useless now. They’re airlifted directly to the helicarrier. The ride stretches on for hours. Clint watches resentfully as Natasha picks slivers of glass from Steve’s arms, chest, fingers.

He can’t fucking take this anymore. Clint retreats to his quarters, feeling more worn out and just _tired_ than he has in a long time. He avoids everyone, even pushes Natasha aside.

She doesn’t bother knocking, even after she keys the code into his door. He remains sitting on the edge of his bed, shoulders slumped and in absolutely no mood to talk.

“Hi.” Her slender legs come into his field of vision. She reaches down and lifts his chin so his eyes meet hers. Natasha's gaze reaches deep inside of him, a beacon into all of the places he tries to keep hidden. It terrifies him how exposed he feels around her, that she strips away all of the debris that clutters his soul.

She drops to her knees in front of him so they’re on the same level. Cement dust is smeared across her face amid bruises and a bloody lip. Her hair is windblown and there’s a long, jagged tear in her uniform that reveals ripped flesh and more than a little blood. Her blue eyes shine with fury through the dirt and caked-on crap that'll take at least three showers to slough off. He's seen her in ball gowns and G-strings and his own dress shirts, but she's never been more beautiful than she is now.

He's a goner, but at least he's honest enough to admit it to himself. If no one else. 

She's still in his face, but her eyes soften ever so slightly. "You're scaring me," she admits. "If you don't talk to me and explain yourself within the next 30 seconds I'm going to rip out your larynx and hang it from my rear view mirror." And there she is again. 

He holds her electric gaze for a few beats, paralyzed. Her stare hardens. "Fine. Whatever. Let your man-period run its course and when you're done pouting, come find me. But I'm not holding my breath." Natasha turns from him, the sneer on her face unmistakable.

He flops backward, eyes closed as the door slams shut. 


	3. Chapter 3

I would like to be the air

That inhabits you for a moment

Only. I would like to be that unnoticed

& that necessary.

-Margaret Atwood

 

It hits him while he’s pinned against a dirty brick wall, sweat dripping into his eyes, near-deaf from the roar of nonstop gunfire. Bullets rain down like a maniacal hailstorm as they ricochet wildly, sending shrapnel flying and dust clouds the air.

 

He’s out of arrows. The Glock’s got maybe one clip left and then he’s fucked. “You guys taking a smoke break?” he grits out over the shaky comm link. “Anytime you wanna join the party you’re more than welcome!” He returns fire overhead only to be rewarded with the empty click of his barrel.

 

Well, shit, he thinks to himself. Guess today’s a good day to die as any.

 

Above him, the blast of a grenade rocks the very foundation of the two abandoned office buildings he’s trapped between. Chunks of concrete, glass and various other debris pound down on him as he shields his face with his forearms.

 

He takes cover behind a massive dumpster and screams over the comm, “Does anybody copy? Requesting backup and extraction immediately – I am trapped between target’s location and building directly to the east! I am taking fire! Repeat, I am taking fire!”

 

No answer.

 

Another blast rips through his body as the ground begins to rumble and groan. The whole fucking building’s gonna come down on his head.

 

He can’t hide and wait any longer or he’ll be a sitting duck. Bullets still riddle the air but he can hear far fewer shots. Clint stands and darts off deeper into the alleyway, stumbling, visibility nearly obliterated by the clouds of dust and smoke and concrete.

 

The bullet whizzes past his ear, then another, and another, and he thinks, I’m gonna die and she’s never gonna know.

 

He’s got nothing left. No arrows, no bullets, no explosives. He whips his bow off of his back and prepares himself.

 

Suddenly he’s thrown back on his ass by a heavy weight that’s tossed  onto him like a sack of potatoes. He scrambles backward, blinking into the sandy air, when he realizes it’s a person. He steps over the fallen man’s back and even the veritable dust storm he’s surrounded by can’t mask the bullet holes that punctuate his back. Blood begins to seep into his shirt and soaks the ground under him. Clint flips him over and takes note of the semiautomatic clutched to his chest, still warm. The filthy bandanna that covers the man’s mouth falls away.

 

Clint makes a face and shoves the corpse away. As he stands, a figure begins to take shape in the smoke, silhouette growing darker and more defined with every step. His breath catches in his throat.

 

She appears, a harbinger, a savior, with one hand on her Beretta and one held out to him. A lifeline.

 

“Come on,” Natasha says, once, her eyes locked onto his. He takes her hand and knows then that he’ll follow her into hell if that’s where she leads.

 

*     *     *

 

Clint has to scour his body for a full twenty minutes before he finds his skin under the layers of grime and blood and dirt. When he steps out from under the spray, he feels raw, ripped open, gutted.

 

He emerges from his tiny bathroom to find her perched on his bed like the bird he is named for, eyes both tender and hungry. Her gaze flicks to the towel wrapped around his hips, and then back up to his face.

 

He stops. He knows she’s got adrenaline to burn off. She wouldn’t be here otherwise. His thoughts drift back to the sound of his own heavy footsteps as he readied himself to die. The blue of her eyes as she saved him, yet again, the latest in a long line of debts he can never fully afford to repay.

 

Clint may never be able to speak the words, because he cannot find ones that do her justice.

 

He approaches her like he would a predator, deliberately and without pretense. It’s time to show his hand. He will lay himself out for her, offer himself up, and let her decide whether to discard or devour.

 

He drops to his knees before her. His altar. Her eyes travel up the line of his torso and the embers within surge to life.

 

Natasha’s lips curve up in a smile, but her face falls, giving away just the slightest hint of confusion when she sees the naked emotion in his stare. Desire and respect and admiration and…something else. Fear?

 

As clear as if he’d spoken the words aloud, she hears them. I want you more than I have wanted anything in my life. More than anything I could know to want.

 

Let me show you.

 

On Clint’s worn carpet, a thin t-shirt, black bra, jeans, and skimpy black panties fall into a heap. She has found herself in this state many times before, stripped before him, but never has she felt so bare.

 

He senses her hesitation. She lifts her chin, tries to nip at him playfully, but he’s having none of it as he settles her back against the blanket. Gently. Reverently. There is no flippant, no glib, no tease. Natasha’s heart races.

 

He starts at her neck with his lips, his tongue. He writes across her skin all the words that language cannot fathom.

 

Let me prove myself to you.

 

Her breath comes in short gasps as he ghosts across her throat, a small smile at the goosebumps he leaves in his wake. Clint lingers at the dip between her collarbones before continuing his journey south. So meticulous, like an artisan crafting his masterpiece.

 

Natasha arches her back as he takes one nipple in his mouth, rubs his tongue over it so gently it only serves to drive her more insane. She’s aching for the brute force of their usual contact, had believed she was unsuitable for anything else.

 

But Clint is teaching, and she is rapidly turning into a very willing student.

 

He spares no inch of her body in his ministrations, her a breathless, languid mess beneath him. When he finally reaches the tops of her thighs she tenses as he slides his shoulders beneath them. She digs her heels into his shoulder blades in an effort to nudge him forward. To where she needs to feel him, feel something, before she implodes into a black hole of need.

 

It feels like hours have passed before the tip of his tongue reaches into her wet folds and taste her. The cry that wrenches itself from her throat is raw and so wrought with desperation that she can hardly believe she’s still conscious. He must have decided that she’s suffered enough, because he distills his entire focus down onto her clit, giving it the attention he’s withheld thus far. A finger, thick and calloused, slides inside, barely any friction thanks to how wet she’s become, then another. He sinks them deep.

 

Her hips buck off of the comforter as he puts everything he has into driving her towards the edge. He knows her body like a harpist knows every string, can count the reverberations that sing out at his command. He works his tongue faster against her. Strums her. And oh, how she is in tune.

 

Fingers card through his hair, grab at the roots and pull tight. The way the sinewy muscles of her legs tighten and shake so minutely they could be vibrating – she’s getting close. He pumps his fingers into her and lets his teeth just brush her clit. And she sets off like a rocket into the sky.

 

She comes, crying out with a wild abandon he’s never seen before. He watches, drinks it in, because he could not tear his eyes from her if his life depended on it.

 

Let me give to you.

 

Is it enough?

 

When she finally regains enough of her composure to prop herself up on her elbows and fix him with a satisfied grin, her eyes drift where he’s hard and ready. Fluid and seamless, she rocks up onto her heels and falls onto her forearms. Her hand reaches for him. She’s ready to reciprocate –

 

And Clint catches her fingers mid-air, shaking his head. This gives her pause. She allows herself to fall into the inferno that’s boiling behind his pupils and what she sees is at once terrifying and beautiful.

 

He closes his fingers around her slender wrist. He kisses each of her fingertips in turn, eyes never leaving hers, and she feels herself crack into a thousand pieces. She’s afraid to peer into the crevices, because she knows he’ll be inside every single one.

 

She follows his lead as he lays her head back against his pillow. He drops kisses against her shoulder, nudging her knees apart, his labored breathing in her ear. Words threaten to bubble up through her lips but she bites them back. There is no space, no air for them here.

 

He grips himself roughly, sliding his hand up and down his length as he leans down over her. She feels the velvety hardness slip in between her drenched folds of flesh and Clint lets out a stuttered groan. He runs the sensitive head up and down her slit before driving himself home.

 

For a few precious seconds they both revel in the sheer feel of each other, tight and hot and hard and full. Natasha steals a glance at Clint’s face above hers and she realizes she’s never seen him so given over to sensation, in just being. This is not a power struggle, not a simple utilization of the other to fill a need. This is just them.

 

One arm, strong with corded muscle, slides under her back, cradling her body against his. He begins to move, to find their rhythm. Her hips push up of their own accord to meet his. It’s good, it’s so good. The sounds that fall from her lips are honest, they are true things that could never be anything else.

 

Clint thrusts into her, deeper than before, and strikes a place inside her that causes her to whimper in pleasure. He rests his damp forehead against hers. Their eyes meet, and hold, and he shifts his weight to the right so he can slip his left hand between them. She feels like falling and flying and suddenly her orgasm rips through her, an exquisite detonation that leaves her quaking and shuddering in Clint’s arms. She rides it out as he follows right behind her, a drawn-out groan in her ear and jerky thrusts preceding his release.

 

Neither of them move for several long minutes, until he slips out of her and reluctantly disentangles his limbs from hers. He falls onto his back and stares up at the ceiling like it will give him the answers he wishes for. “Steve’s in love with you,” he says evenly, voice raspy from disuse.

 

Her silence confirms that this is not a revelation. He knows better than to think he could surprise her.

 

He doesn't move, not as she gathers her clothing from the floor. Not as she slips her shirt over her head like a suit of armor. He doesn't flinch as she strides cleanly out of his room, the door clicking decisively behind her.

 

Clint waits until her footsteps fade before rolling onto his side, numb, the last plea of his silent prayer dying on his lips.

 

Let me love you.

 

*     *     *

 

Six days later, he receives one wordless message serving as his only confirmation that she's even still alive.

 

The photo in itself reveals little to the untrained eye; Clint knows better. Even on the scaled-down screen of his smartphone he’d recognize the faded-out haze over the mountain peaks. He remembers running his fingers over the highest boughs of impossibly tall spruce trees. The rocky summit where, in the dead of night, he’d whispered three words into a shock of red hair as she slept.

 

She knew. She knew all along.

 

It was nearly three years ago that they'd been given a then unheard-of leave of forty-eight hours. Forty-eight consecutive hours. Clint thought they'd died and gone to heaven.

 

Or, wherever people like them went after their time had expired. He didn't like to dwell on it.

 

They grabbed backpacks and a Jeep and made the two-hour drive to the Adirondacks in record time. The hike was spent laughing at each other as they slipped and slid on damp rocks, slick with a morning rain. Halfway to the summit, she grinned at him and announced that the last one to the top was at the command of the other for the rest of the day.

 

Clint gave it his best go, he really did. But it was a race he was glad to lose. He spent a heady twenty-five minutes with his face between her thighs as she dug her nails into the nape of his neck. They camped on the summit of Algonquin Peak in a tiny tent and spent the night squeezed into a sleeping bag meant for one very slender inhabitant.

 

He remembers the night sky, clear as a bell, so cold his breath froze in midair. What would it take to stop the world on its axis? He had never wished for anything so fervently. Under the stars, he told her his truth, the only time that he could ever force the words from his throat, when he was sure she couldn’t hear him.  

 

His heart races, fumbling, barely enough presence of mind to grab a jacket and stagger his way to a Jeep. The same one? He doubted it, but then again, he was made up of a series of coincidences that he would never be quite able to explain.

 

Clint does not remember the long stretches of highway that lead him to the base of the mountain. He knows only one step after the other, scrambling up the precarious, meandering path to the top. The journey is brief and endless and over too fast.

 

She’s standing atop a ledge of rock, arms crossed, a brilliant smile on her face. Clint thinks she looks like a shrine, a monument, a lighthouse that leads him to where he belongs. Where he has always belonged, whether he can admit it or not.

 

Those final steps that close the distance between them are punctuated by heavy, thudding heartbeats. His or hers? They are the same, now.

 

The kiss she launches onto him is messy and ungraceful and the most perfect thing Clint Barton has ever experienced. She wraps her legs around his hips and cups his cheeks between her hands like he’s some precious thing, and clings to him for dear life. He can’t help the grin that spreads across his face. The last of his doubts slough away like layers of dead skin. He feels free.

 

Natasha lets their foreheads touch. “I didn’t…I didn’t know how to be…sure. But I am now. I’m sorry it took me so long.”

 

Clint shakes his head. “I’m ready when you are.” He means it, oh, how he means it.

 

Her smile is warm and honest. “I know,” she says evenly, and kisses him.

 

*     *     *

 

Compromised. Clint’s hated that word since he first heard it uttered in the context of loyalty and allegiances. It’s deceptively euphemistic. It means that you really have no fucking idea who you are, why you’re here, who you answer to at the end of the day. He has never been more certain.

 

He prefers to think of it in the other sense. Meeting halfway. Giving a little to get a little. And sometimes giving a lot with no promise of return at all, whatever the price. Clint finds that his life with Natasha is an ever-changing, constantly-evolving organism, and they take turns on each end of offering and accepting.

 

They remain each other’s anchor. After a mission that leaves them reeling and half-alive, Natasha backs him against a crumbling wall and kisses him hard and unforgiving. Stark wolf-whistles, Banner scratches his head and turns away, and Steve gives them a half-sad smile. He knows now that what exists between the two of them is beyond him, beyond reason.

 

The world can do its worst, Clint thinks to himself as they stand in a field of rubble and ash. But I will always, always find my way home.

 

*     *     *


End file.
